


Exile

by Nastrandir



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Former friends with benefits (sort of), I have a thing for the inherent tragedy in Dragon Age stories, Other, Tragedy, Trauma, Violence, childhood friendships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nastrandir/pseuds/Nastrandir
Summary: On the surface she's a Warden, but when she returns to Orzammar, she finds that the past proves a tangled path that she must walk.
Relationships: Female Brosca/Leske (Dragon Age)





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Another DA: Origins story I've brushed off to post here. Please heed the archive warning tag for this one, and if I've missed anything else that should be more directly tagged, please let me know. 
> 
> The story's complete, and also posted by me at ff.net, under the same username.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

She’d forgotten the smell, the cloying thickness of it, the way the dust seemed to swim in the air. She’d forgotten the sounds, the clamour of footsteps and weapons and voices all trapped inside the stone. She’d forgotten the heat and how it clung, relentless, to the pillars and the high curving walls. Even here, she thought, even here in the damn Diamond Quarter, even here where the guards hadn’t looked at her brand, _especially_ here. 

She crossed the room again, her gaze brisk and taking in the deep carvings, the rich gold-on-green fall of the tapestries, the soft glow of the lanterns. Beside the table, she paused long enough to hook up the decanter and a cup. 

Warden, they’d called her at the gates. Warden, since the title and the icy pendant at her throat meant the bastards couldn’t call her exile to her face. Warden and welcomed and grudgingly they’d let her in, and already she suspected she’d walked smack into even more of a fucking mess than the one she’d left. 

She gulped at the wine and swore when she swallowed too fast. Too aware of the tension that still had its claws it her, she stalked across to the bath, the stone rim of it smooth and gleaming. Rica’d insisted, rooms and hospitality and the palace and minutes after the servants had closed the doors she’d stood, fingers clenched, wondering what she was expected to do next. She shucked her leathers off, still damp with the snow and the sharp scent of the mountains. How many months, she thought. How many since she’d staggered out into the biting brittle night and trailed after Duncan? How many since she’d been dragged out from the stone walls here and been offered a choice that was no damn choice at all? 

Months enough for Rica to carry the child, she supposed. Months enough for the darkspawn to come surging up out of the stone. Months enough to scrub the stink of Dust Town off her skin and wonder if she’d ever see it again. 

The warmth of the water banished the roil of her thoughts, and afterwards, she dripped her way across the deep, soft rugs. She was half-dressed and close to halfway through the decanter when the door opened, letting in Rica amid whispering green silk and the dewdrop glint of jewels. 

“I’m not disturbing you?”

She grinned. “Not by much, I promise.” 

“I wondered if we could talk,” Rica said. 

She nodded. “Sure. Of course.” 

“This treaty you’re here for, Corryth. I know you’re a Warden now,” Rica said, and frowned, hesitating. 

“They gave me a shiny pendant and everything to prove it.” 

Rica blinked. “Right. I meant – I know there are greater concerns for you and your friends right now.” 

“You’re dancing,” she said sharply. 

“I’m sorry. It’s been so different here. You must know that - of course you do. It happened so fast. One day we were both here, and then,” Rica said. 

“Then you went and rolled around the right way with Prince Bhelen and look at us now.” Instants after the words rolled off her tongue, she regretted them, the guilt sinking its talons in. “Shit. I’m sorry.” 

Rica shook her head. “No, it’s fine.” 

She grabbed for the decanter again. “You’re right. It was fast. One heartbeat I was staring up at some guard’s sword, the next I was being marched outside, right up to the surface.” 

“I know,” Rica said, softer. “They wouldn’t let me see you. Wouldn’t even let me write you a letter.” 

“Wouldn’t’ve mattered. Had to move even faster once we hit daylight.” 

“Where did you go?” 

“First? Ostagar.” 

“Where?” 

Corryth grinned. “It’s a good story. Not sure it’s one I’d believe if anyone else told it to me.” 

“Try me.” Something sparked in Rica's eyes, something half-buried and fierce and well-remembered. 

“Alright. It starts with me shaking in my damn boots and wondering if I’d get myself half a league into the mountains before keeling over.” The words came quicker after that, quicker and tumbling into each other, the high broken towers of Ostagar and the chaotic clamour of the battle that had followed. How she’d woken with a scream still half on her lips afterwards, her gaze finding Flemeth’s daughter and later, her fingers finding the new scars on her shoulders. How the months had unraveled after that, the road always twisting away ahead, and the early mornings bringing her jolting out of uncertain sleep. 

“What does it mean?” 

“Just means I don’t sleep well some nights,” Corryth said guardedly. “Look, I don’t know. Something to do with being a Warden.” 

“And you think you’ll manage it? This thing you have to do?” 

“If I can get those bastards in the Assembly to stop blocking each other and start talking, sure.” She stared down at the wine cup, the base of it encrusted and bright with gems. “I don’t know. I just know I’m stuck with it, and I need to do it. Or try to do it.” 

“Well then,” Rica said. “We should get you another audience with Bhelen. Move on from there.” 

She nodded. “That’s a start. Now tell me. Are you alright?” 

Rica laughed. “Have you seen where you are?” 

“Not what I asked.” 

“I’m alright,” her sister said, quieter. “It was strange, to begin with.” Rica shook herself, her gaze brightening again. “You need anything while you’re here, you let me know, you understand?” 

“I understand,” Corryth answered lightly. She drained the cup. “So. You seen Leske?” 

“No,” Rica said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t.” 

X

She couldn’t stop staring at the low stone roof, or else at the hanging lamps and the trembling marigold light they threw across the long low tables and the rich rugs that swathed the stone floor. She’d spent the afternoon with Rica and the child – Endrin, she recalled, same as the child’s grandfather, tiny and solidly strong already, hands wrapping around one of her fingers and locking hard – before she’d been called into Prince Bhelen’s rooms. 

He’d called it a negotiation and she’d thought it a decision already made for her but she’d agreed regardless. Tracking down a pair of nobles in Harrowmont’s pay and convincing them otherwise and inwardly she’d wondered how different this was, really, to anything Beraht had ever ordered of her. 

And now, sitting with her elbows on the table and a full plate in front of her, her attention was damn well wandering. The others had already eaten, most of them, murmuring about how good it was to be inside and out from the brisk, biting cold of the mountains. She’d been aware of them talking, of how they’d slipped out, and she was almost sure she’d nodded and said she’d see them later. She’d been left with Alistair on one side and the huge brown-furred mabari curled up near the hearth, huffing quietly into his paws.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked.

She stirred out of the mire of her thoughts. “Hmm?” 

“You’re being very quiet,” he said wryly. He reached for another slice of meat. “Just not like you.” 

“Yes.” She stared down at the plate for another long moment. “Sorry.” 

“No, don’t be. I only meant – well, I can’t know how you feel, but I know I’d feel strange, coming back like this.” 

“It is. I mean, I knew we’d have to come here. I didn’t think about it. Didn’t want to think about it.” 

“Why not?” 

She laughed, the sound of it hollow. “Me, telling them all what to do and how to do it, just because I’m asking? Right.” 

Alistair smiled. “You know, if they’d told us to go away at the gates, we’d have thought of something.” 

“Like what? Getting Sten to stare at them?” 

“That’s worked in the past.” 

She grinned, the reaction honest and surprising herself. “True enough, that.” 

“Your sister’s nice.”

“She’d better be, given that Mother and me haven’t an ounce of charm between us.” Her grin faded. “She is. Still can’t believe she was sitting there. Still can’t believe she’s up here in this damn palace with a child.” 

“When you left,” he said, and hesitated. 

“She was hoping she was with child. We didn’t know, though. Weren’t sure yet.” She pushed the plate away. 

“Corryth,” he said. 

“You sound like Wynne. Just not very hungry right now.” 

Alistair nodded slowly. “You saw the prince?” 

“Yes, I suffered that pleasure this afternoon.” 

“What do you think?”

“He’s a conniving bastard.” 

“Is he any better or worse than the other man? Harrowmont?” 

Corryth grimaced. “How should I know? They’re all the same far’s I see. Rich bastards who can afford to take the time over the voting while the Assembly locks itself up and the city goes stale.” 

“And what do you really think?” 

“Sharp,” she acknowledged. She turned, slinging one leg over the bench so that she was facing him. “Alright. I can’t see between them, that’s the truth. But my sister’s trapped with Bhelen.” 

“Trapped?” 

“Well. She wouldn’t say trapped. Probably wouldn’t say it. But it’s not worth the mess it’d leave her in if her exiled Warden sister stirred up the city by siding with Harrowmont.” 

“Then Bhelen it is,” Alistair said. 

“That easily?” 

“She’s your sister. It’s important,” he said, softer. “And, well. It’s your city. I don’t know this place at all. I don’t understand what we’ve walked into.” 

“You know,” she remarked drily. “Not sure I do anymore either.” 

“Then that makes us quite the pair right now. Look,” he said. “As long as we’re careful, we’ll figure it out.” 

She reached for the wine cup, lifted it. The wine burned when she swallowed too quickly. “Stupid. I just want it over. Get the treaty agreed and get out of here.” 

“That’s not stupid.” 

“No?” She scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck. “Sorry. I’m snapping at you because I don’t know what we’ve found ourselves in.”

“Well,” Alistair said mildly. “It wasn’t your best shot at me by far. I can be forgiving.” 

She stared at him for a long, suspicious moment before she saw the smile at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. I think.” 

Later, she slept badly, too aware of the enveloping silence. Twice she rolled over and glared at the dying embers of the fire beneath the stone mantel. She woke to stiff shoulders and the uncomfortable awareness of too much space around her, the absurd hollow emptiness of the guest rooms she’d been put in. She meandered across to the basin and splashed tepid water at her face until she blinked. She dressed quickly, yanking fabric and leather on and fumbling with laces and buckles. Afterwards, she raked her hands through the short, thick mop of her hair. Her boots followed, and finally her sword and the two daggers she was never without, one hanging at her waist and one strapped to the inside of her calf. 

The day took her through the city, relearning its avenues and pathways and the way the streets twisted past the golden glow of the lava. She found herself retracing old trails past guard posts and towards the proving grounds, and back again, through the lines of the merchants’ stalls. Pausing to admire gems and trinkets and the severe, beautiful lines of new swords, she even found herself dallying on occasion. 

She heard the whispers that followed, and half listened to them, to the way they called her Warden, and exile, and brand, and bit back a grin when more than one of them mangled her name. She discovered Lord Helmi at Tapsters, eager enough to talk as well as to switch loyalties, though she wasn’t entirely sure she could blame him, given the apparent evidence Bhelen’d handed her. The afternoon – she thought it was the afternoon, and since when had she started patterning her days the way they did up on the surface, with its shifting sunlight? – found her back in the palace, pacing. 

“So,” Zevran said, his voice easy and lilting. “Let me see if I understand. Lady Dace’s father is needed, and he is away. And by away, this means the Deep Roads.”

“Yes, the Deep Roads. Nasty, dark and full of darkspawn,” she replied absently. “Off to one of the old thaigs. We start now, we’ll catch him quick.” 

“And we want to do this? I only mean, should we not wait for him to return?” 

Corryth grinned. “No, I don’t like the idea either. But we need the bastard, so we go.” 

“We?” the assassin echoed, his grin as wolfish as hers. 

“We need to move fast and quiet. You, me, Alistair, the dog.” 

Zevran sighed theatrically. “And no choice once again. Remind me why I am here?” 

“Because I stabbed you in the leg, clubbed you over the head and after you woke up, I asked you if you wanted more, and you said no.” 

He laughed. “Yes, I suppose it did go somewhat like that.” 

  
  


X

Down here, she remembered. 

Down here, she knew how to move, how to read the shadows and the way they rippled. How to duck past the lancing shafts of light so she’d not be blinded, not have the light stamped for too long on the inside of her eyelids. How to track the darkspawn where they left scuffed prints along the ground and between the sliding shale. How to trail them into the close, deafening press of the blackness and stop, waiting for the telltale hiss of an unsheathed blade or the gulping noise of them breathing. 

When they stopped, eventually, all of them worn by the punishing hours of marching, she ordered them away from the main trail, far away, into the small curve of an empty stone corridor. The air smelled mostly clean at least, the floor dry and cool. 

“Going to have to manage watches both ways,” she said. 

“Wonderful,” Zevran muttered. He glanced at the overarching press of the stone roof above. “Are you certain?” 

“It’s this, or somewhere more open where they’re likely to see us from too far off, or else somewhere even more closed that we’ll get backed into.” 

“As always you make the best of a bad set of options sound positively tempting, my dear.” 

“Course I do.” 

She’d scavenged an armful of wood on their way in, broken-off lance shafts and bits of old shields and whatever else the darkspawn had dropped that she could use. She crammed the lot of it together and coaxed a tentative fire into life. The flames sent the shadows scattering. Corryth sat, legs crossed and eyes on the fire, idly wondering if they were safe enough that she could risk kicking her boots off. 

“You know the Deep Roads well?” Alistair asked.

She swivelled her head so she could look up at him. “Don’t know if I’d go so far as saying I know them. There’s whole cities’ worth under there, lost to the sodding darkspawn.”

“But?” Zevran asked. 

“But Leske and me, we might’ve wandered out a time or two.”

“Looking for what?”

“Loot. Weapons, armour, jewels. Anything you strip off a dead bastard you can sell to a living one later. Didn’t feel like this before, though.”

“How do you mean?” 

“Mean last time, we could hear the darkspawn, right enough. But I couldn’t feel them under my skin like this. Like we can.” The words spilled out in a juddering, grated rush, close to a whisper. "Like I can feel their footsteps in me before I hear them."

“Yes,” Alistair said softly. “It does feel like that, doesn’t it?” 

“Never made it too deep in, though. No sense getting stuck more than a day or so out of Orzammar unless you really can’t help it.” 

“How far in is this Lord Dace?” 

“If we’re lucky and he’s where he should be, we should run into him tomorrow.”

“If we’re lucky?” Zevran said, and grinned. “When aren’t we?” 

“You would say that,” Corryth retorted. “You missed the bit where we got shot by a whole lot of arrows.” 

“Yes, but you also got rescued and gathered into the folds of destiny.” 

“The way you talk about it makes it seem far more exciting.” 

“It’s a talent.” 

Corryth glared at him before reaching for her pack. The rations inside were bland and dry, the last of the salted meat. She ate slowly, aware of the othera as they talked, as Alistair chattered to the dog about something, as Zevran mimicked him before dissolving into laughter. 

“Sorry,” she said, much later, vaguely aware they were looking at her. “Someone said something?” 

“Sharp,” Alistair said teasingly. “You’re tired?” 

“Sleep? Down here? Not a chance. What did you say just then?” 

“I was asking about your friend.” 

“Leske?” 

“Yes. Are you going to look for him?” 

She clicked her mouth closed. “Wouldn’t know where to start.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Yes, well. You know I said I left Orzammar on – hah, on not the best of terms?” 

Alistair nodded. “I remember.” 

“I got hauled off by the guards to the gate with Duncan, and Leske got hauled off the other way. I’d be impressed if he’s still breathing.” 

Very carefully, Alistair asked, “Why?” 

“And what you really mean is, why didn’t you mention that before?” Corryth sighed. “You heard about the Provings we have?” 

“A little.” 

“Well. Let’s just say me and Leske thought it’d be a damn good idea to strap me in somebody else’s armour and send me out into the Proving. And yes, we were actually shocked when we got caught.”

Alistair coughed. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Barely.” She scrubbed a hand across her face. “You know, this kind of story really needs a tavern and a lot of ale to have it make sense.” 

“It’s alright.” Alistair’s face softened. “I can always ask again sometime we’re in a tavern with a lot of ale.” 

She smiled, the movement of it reflexive and false and too tight. “Thanks.” 

X

She took last watch, and sat beside the embers of the fire, her gaze fixed on the blank darkness beyond. They’d not been bothered by the darkspawn, and she idly wondered at their luck. Zevran had mentioned footsteps, dragging faint and uneven, but he’d said the passageways either side were clear, and besides, she figured the distance would be distorting the sound. Eventually she stood, wincing as something pulled in her lower back. A quick glance behind showed her the other two still asleep, enviably deeply, and the dog on Alistair’s other side, his huge dark eyes open and watchful. She nodded to the dog, briefly considered that she was surely going mad, and paced to where the curve in the rock met the wider spread of the corridor. 

Empty, she found, and heavy with the shadows. A broad lance of light speared down further ahead, dense with the dust. She sat again, sliding down onto her heels, the stone pressing hard against her back. 

She missed the air moving, she realised, and stifled an absurd smile. She missed the damn air and she missed the surface and she still wasn’t sure what kind of maze she’d walked into down here.

 _The evening was cool, the air moving against her face. Whenever she opened her mouth, she could taste the forest, the dense rustling pine trees, the tiny needles that were still clinging to her boots._ _She squinted at the parchment that was unrolled across her knees. She lasted through the terse moments before the letters resolved into something she could mostly wrestle with. She traced the ink with uncertain fingers, her mouth moving silently and catching on the words._

 _"_ _What’s this one?”_

_Alistair shifted. “Sorry?”_

_“This word.”_

_He tilted his head. “Oh. Alliance.”_

_“Right.” She grinned ruefully. “Sorry.”_

_"_ _For what?”_

_“Takes me a while sometimes.”_

_His mouth crooked into a soft smile. “That’s nothing to apologise for.”_

_"Hah. Maybe.”_

_“I can think of other things you can apologise for, if you want.”_

_She laughed. “Like what?”_

_"Finishing my dinner for me when I didn't even ask,” he said teasingly._

_“That was six days ago. And you were almost done with it." She flattened her hands against the parchment. She remembered the day in the ruined tower, when she’d been running on instinct and jangling nerves and they’d finally stumbled upon the cache Duncan’d sent them for and found it empty._ _She looked up and found Alistair regarding her, that slight narrowing around his eyes that meant he wanted to ask something and wasn’t sure how._

_"It was my sister who taught me,” she explained, and he nodded. “You remember I told you about Beraht?”_

_“Yes.”_

_"Beraht paid for it. For her. Or hit people until they helped, whichever. Meant that Rica knew her letters and how to write them well. Bits of it, she told me.”_

Footfalls broke her thoughts apart, and she spun upright, her sword halfway out of its scabbard. 

“Only me,” Alistair said, holding both hands up. 

She sheathed the sword and mustered up a brief glare. “Couldn’t sleep either?” 

“Something about those dreams where all you hear are the whispers and suddenly, no, I kept finding myself awake.” 

“Strange, that.” 

He laughed, or sighed, the sound of it tired. “Isn’t it.” 

She slid back down until she was sitting. For long, hesitant moments, she plucked at the pendant, tangled amid the laces at her collar and cold, sliding against the pads of her fingers. “Hey, Alistair?” 

He sat beside her, drawing his knees up. “Mmm?” 

“Long way to the nearest tavern about now, I think.” 

He nodded, and mercifully, kept his gaze on the way the dust shifted in the bright column of light. “I’m listening.” 

“We thought it was going to be typical. Just chase someone down, hit them until they hand over the coin, or the jewels, or an agreement to do whatever they’d promised to do. Shouldn’t’ve been as messy as it turned out.” She paused again, gulped down a shuddering breath, and kept talking. The words spilled out, rough and raw and too fast. 

The way she’d dragged Leske into the proving grounds, the way the both of them had enjoyed it – and she knew they had, they both had, the way they kept grinning at each other, like idiots – and the way they’d stood in Everd’s room and decided on it, decided in a heartbeat, the way they usually decided, make the choice and run with it. The way they’d slipped the poison into Mainar’s water, and later, when they’d wrestled her into Everd’s armour – Leske had laughed and she’d smacked him and told him to damn well stick around while she went out into the arena – and when she’d been ushered out, into the waiting hushed silence of them, all of them, nobles, watching her. 

“You know,” she admitted. “We almost thought we’d gotten away with it. I’d come through all three rounds, still standing. Then I guess that bastard Everd woke up too soon.” 

“What happened?” 

“Guards kicked me until I went down,” she said, and shrugged. “Woke up a while later in Beraht’s place, locked in a cell with my head sorer than if I’d tried to out-drink a bronto.” 

“And your friend?” 

“Leske was there too. Didn’t manage to slither away that time.” She rubbed awkwardly at the back of her neck, her fingers catching against the pendant’s chain. “So, that’s it. We got ourselves out of Beraht’s place and ran into the guards again. And that’s when Duncan was there and you know the rest.” 

“Maybe a tavern and a lot of ale would have been a good idea,” Alistair said mildly. 

“You go out like a melted candle after two drinks.” 

“And you never found out what happened to him?” 

“No. Not like we could’ve sent each other letters. He reads worse than I do.” 

“You know,” Alistair said, carefully, as if he was testing the words. “You could try. Looking for him, I mean. Talk to your sister. I don’t know. And I don’t know if I’m saying the right thing.” 

“No, it’s just,” she said, and exhaled sharply. She could hear it in his voice, that uncertainty, the way he was trying not to ask. _Who was he to you. Who are you to each other._ She couldn't blame him - she never had, not since he'd put up with her since she'd skulked into Ostagar, all foul-tempered and cagey and shouting at him more often than not, those first few days. “You walked out of somewhere knowing damn well nothing good’s about to happen to the person you left behind?” 

“No. No, I suppose not.” 

“Shit. I’m sorry.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her face. “Don’t want to argue.” 

Wryly he said, “Corryth, we’ve had arguments. This isn’t one. My head isn’t even ringing yet.” 

“Funny.” Blankly she stared at the shaft of light until the livid brightness of it stung. “Think we’ve spent so damn long running around that I shoved it all to the back of my mind. Figured I could think about it later.”

“That doesn’t always work that well,” he said, very gently. “Or at least that’s what I remember of a certain conversation we had near Redcliffe.” 

Despite herself, she grinned. “There are secrets and then there are _secrets_ , my prince. Thanks.”

“For what?” 

“For listening.” 

  
  
X

Her rooms at the palace were silent, the fire still crackling under the mantelpiece, and the heavy hanging lamps throwing spots of bright light. Corryth kicked the door closed and surveyed the open empty expanse of plush rugs and the table and the armour stand, and finally the bath. Satisfied that she was alone, she dumped her swordbelt and daggers on the table. She heaved her boots off and winced when she saw the new bruises blooming just above her ankle. The damn skittering deepstalkers, she reckoned, when they’d broken out of cover and rushed, dozens of them. 

She peeled off the rest of her clothes and eased herself into the bath. The water was hot, and stupidly she wondered at it, at which servants had been sent bolting once Prince Bhelen’s guests were spotted at the palace gates. 

The door opened and she spluttered and sank neck deep, glaring. 

“You’re back,” Rica said, gliding across the threshold. 

Her dress was different, Corryth noted, and wondered why such small petty details even mattered. Deepest red and clinging in beautiful rich panels, the pins in her hair topped with crimson jewels. “Next time, I’m barricading that door."

“Bhelen tells me you found Lord Dace.” 

“Yes, and we also found his agreement for the voting, which I’m sure is much more useful to Prince Bhelen right now.” She straightened up. “Sorry. Long day.” 

“I understand.” Rica reached for the soap and passed it across. “Would you like to join me for dinner later?” 

Corryth rubbed the soap between her palms. “Just you and me?” 

“If you’d like.” 

She slathered the slippery lather through her hair. “I, ah.” 

Rica smiled. “Corryth, you’re a bad liar. To me, at least. You have something you need to do?” 

“Need’s such a solemn word.” She dunked herself under the surface, emerging to stinging runnels of water and the tangy scent of the soap. “But, yes. I think so. You don’t mind?” 

“Of course I don’t mind. But I will be tying you to a chair and getting to see you at least once before you leave.” 

“Deal,” Corryth said absently. She flicked the dripping ends of her hair out of her eyes. She reached out and caught Rica’s wrist, squeezing gently until her wet fingers left spreading marks along her sister’s sleeve. “Shit. Sorry.” 

“No, you aren’t,” Rica said mildly. “Just be careful.” 

“When aren’t I?”

Rica flung her a knowing smile and left her to the warm water and the lamplight. She idled through another few moments before hauling herself out and onto the rugs again. Trailing droplets, she dried herself off quickly and roughly and tugged her clothes back on, grimacing when she had to wrestle with them. She squeezed the worst of the water out of her hair and combed the rest of it into place with her fingers. She was too damn clean, she thought suddenly. 

She’d wanted the slow, seeping heat of the bath and now she was too clean. 

But she’d been summoned in to see Prince Bhelen the next day, and likely she’d be running herself ragged on some other errand for him that would devour the hours. 

“Sod it,” she muttered, and slung her swordbelt around her waist. The walk through to Dust Town would likely rub some of the gleam off her. She snapped her daggers into place and stalked out into the corridor. 

Out in the city, the air was still warm, tasting metallic and sharp when she breathed in too deeply. She cut a quick path through the Diamond Quarter, head down and footsteps brisk before she was out and in the Commons. She wove her way through to the tall yellow slabs that framed the gateway and stopped, the breath suddenly locking up in her chest.

Stupid, she thought venomously. She knew her way around, knew every inch of the labyrinthine sprawl of this place, the nests of small houses all crammed under low stone roofs and the twisting alleyways that were rarely lit, the storehouses pegged out by the gangs and guarded, always guarded. 

Corryth shrugged, steeled herself, and strode under the stone blocks, too aware of the tight strain between her shoulders.

The dryness in the air assailed her first, that parched rasping dryness that clogged eyelashes and lined weapons and clung between layers of fabric. One hand on her sword hilt, she made her way down the wide sweep of the alleyway. Brusquely, she noted movement ahead, footsteps and someone shouting something, and then a yelled response before she ducked around the corner. Walking fast, she quartered the open stone square ahead, and the one after that, and the third, all of them thronged with the clamour of the afternoon, sellers hawking trinkets and beggars grabbing for coin and Carta muscle, all strapped up in armour and shouldering their way through the crowds. Corryth turned sharply, already guessing she’d been seen. 

Outside the tavern – tavern, she thought sourly, the damn place was four walls and a stinking floor and ale that would knock flat a statue just from its scent – she paused, shoulders planted flat against the wall. 

Stupid, she thought again. She’d thrown herself at walking trees and lumbering demons she couldn’t’ve named until Wynne explained afterwards and hurled herself hard enough at a werewolf that she’d toppled the bastard. She’d kept herself breathing for all those months up on the surface and now she was being defeated by a fucking door and the triphammer thump of her own heartbeat. 

She shoved the door open and stepped inside. A dozen or so steps took her across to where the barkeep stood, elbows braced on the bar. 

“Brosca,” he said, and grinned. “Thought we’d heard your name floating around.” 

“Really,” she retorted. “Attached to pretty words and prettier deeds, I hope.” 

“You wish. You’re back?” 

“For now,” she allowed. “Got here a few days ago.” 

“Your sister’s out, right?” 

“That she is.” She glanced past him, to the tables and the low, sputtering fire in the far corner. 

“You looking for something, Brosca?” 

“Someone,” she said, turning back. “You wouldn’t happen to know if Leske’s around?” 

“He’s still on his feet, if that’s what you mean.” 

“Sounds like him,” she said flatly, the startling relief of it coiling through her. 

“He’d be around,” he said. “Drops in most days.” 

“He still Carta?” She already knew the answer to that - because where else would Leske be, if he was still on his feet? - but she knew she had to ask, had to play at the pretense that this was a conversation between old acquaintances, whiling away the afternoon.

“Course he is.” The barkeep tipped his head to one side. “You want me to send one of my boys? Find him?” 

She dug a coin out of the purse at her belt, then changed her mind and added another three before laying them on the bar. “You’d be doing me a favour.” 

“Done enough of those for you for a lifetime, Brosca.” 

“Sure you have,” she responded acidly. 

“You want a drink?” 

“No, I’m just standing here because I enjoy your company.” 

He laughed. He turned, and she waited while he found a tankard and filled it, the ale dark and foaming. She nodded to him and grasped the tankard before ambling her way past the bar. She chose a table near the far wall and sat, remembering that the angle would let her see the whole taproom. Idly, she laid one dagger on the table beside the tankard and kept her other hand curled loosely around her sword hilt. 

Beraht’s blood had fed the stone, along with as many of his men they’d gotten their hands on and their swords into. Still, she thought, didn’t mean there weren’t a dozen other bastards down here, older targets she’d probably even forgotten she had anything to do with. She wasn’t sure how long she sat, taking small slow sips of the ale. She watched more than a few traders pad their way in and across to the bar and wondered if she’d known them, before. Some of the afternoon’s working girls followed them in, two of them stopping to ask after Rica and whatever stupid tangle Corryth’d managed to get herself webbed in this time. 

She was close to the bottom of the tankard and wondering just how much longer she could drag out a single damn drink when the door opened again. 

She hid her grin behind the rim of the tankard and waited until he’d crossed the floor. 

“Brosca,” Leske said, one side of his mouth shifting. “Still alive?” 

“Disappointed?” 

“Impressed and a little startled,” he corrected mildly. 

She shoved the other chair out and watched as he sat, scarred, rough hands lying flat on the table. Dark haired and all muscle under his leathers and she swore she could see new scars, tracking down the slope of his neck. 

“What bit you?” 

“A sword,” he answered ruefully. 

“Bitch of a place to get swiped.” 

“True enough.” 

She lifted the tankard invitingly. “You buying me another?” 

Leske grinned. “Come on. I’ve a half-decent bottle I’ve just been waiting to waste on someone like you.” 

“Someone like me,” she echoed, deliberately bland. “Charming.” 

“Like you care, Brosca.” 


End file.
